Jeanette and Anna no doubt headed to the Wake, to avoid raising any suspicion of their imminent departure. Helen and James, however, chose to avoid the inevitable awkward questions in favour of a moment in the graveyard, watching the waves roll in as they said goodbye to their friend. The sun was already starting to set, its beams creating golden halos in the sea, around the cold clouds. It made their course of action clear – following the Griffins wouldn't help them, indeed it might give the supposed pursuers a lead on their whereabouts. Jeanette had been a skilled Resistance leader. Anna was in more than capable hands when it came to evading detection, and frankly the only other option – tying them up and imprisoning them at the Sanctuary for their own safety – was unconscionable. The only way they could help was, as Jeanette had challenged, to find out how and why Nigel had died – to find who it was striking fear into their hearts.

Magnus and Watson managed to find an inn with two rooms for the night in a small town a few miles further inland. Helen had chuffed at the name of it – The Five Bells – an apt title, with their thoughts still on their fallen friend.

Friendship was precisely why, after unpacking her singular suitcase, she'd stolen through the creaking oak corridor to knock on James' door.

"Yes?" That astute, querying tone was loud through the wood.

"James?" her voice was much softer, but no less commanding for that, "It's me."

She could hear him move, limping still from that war wound, as the door swung open and he raised those eagle-eyes to meet hers. "Helen," he greeted simply, not quite moving out of her way with the freedom she was used to.

Magnus smiled amicably, carefully, "I thought we might…" she started to gesture and stopped, bringing her hand back with a sudden bout of restraint, and unconsciously worrying her fingers against her stomach. She cleared her throat subtly before fixing her gaze back to his – all hope and sincerity, "go over the report together."

He eyed her with the slightest smile – same old Helen. Using that façade of practicality and necessity to keep her emotions firmly guarded, to keep the people who loved her close, but never close enough. Couldn't come over for a brandy and consolation, even of the platonic kind. No, it had to be for the coroner's report they'd obtained en route. To go over the next great abnormal mystery – avert the next major crisis. Sometimes he wondered if she was truly capable of taking a holiday… even if the future of the world depended on it.

In this instance, however, James could hardly throw stones. Mrs Griffin's accusations were all he'd been able to think about since the graveyard, and he'd missed Helen, a lot, the last few years. It would've been childish to deny that her company on this case was anything other than welcome.

"Hmm," he began as if considering it, that ironic tone of his, the unrelenting, chiding smile giving him away, "well they do say two heads together can be better than one."

She seemed taken aback, eying him with amused disbelief, as if to make sure he really had just referenced what she thought he had, "Doris Day?"

He stepped out of the way of the door, completely ignoring the comment before she could tease him for it, "Best not stand on my doorstep all night Helen – tongues will, undoubtedly, wag."

"They'll wag anyway won't they?" she muttered as he closed the door behind her.

When he didn't respond she turned back, he was analysing her, with those beady, narrowed eyes, intrigued by what he'd detected in her tone.

"What?" she asked self-consciously, wondering what she'd done to become the object of study this time, what had induced such a concerned expression.

"I didn't think you cared," he stated matter-of-factly, "– water off a duck's back and all that?"

"I don't," she reiterated, a hardened edge to her tone as she understood what he was getting at. Realising too late that she sounded more than just a little contrary, "At least," she sighed. Trying to explain this to a man like James – who never shared physical intimacy without some kind of meaningful emotional bond – was difficult. "I don't care what they think they know, or what they say to other people …" She gestured widely as she spoke, heading over to the chest of draws where the report was resting on top, "really it's none of their damn business. I simply… do not care for the assumptions they make from such petty gossip."

There had been a member of the UN, just over a year ago… a high-flier, well placed to assist the Sanctuary Network in gaining a much-needed foothold in the Soviet Union – Grozny to be precise. Cairo had been struggling to deal with the abnormal cases in their growing urban populations, let alone the Saharan Desert, let alone the Middle East – a constant hotbed of violence. They'd been getting increasing demand further north of the Holy Lands, and Berlin had demands on it from across the Iron Curtain too. Moscow was the long term goal but, in the case of the USSR, it was all baby steps. With Sanctuaries in both America and its allies, it was going to be a tough sell. So Helen had approached Mr Zelmanof, and spent some time with him in private, and as it happens he was a very intelligent, very attractive man and yes, they'd slept together. Was it a crime? No. Had she intended to avoid it so as not to be accused of sleeping around to get her own way? Yes. But he'd been… a breath of fresh air in her rather restrained and uneventful love life.

Sadly, not only her protégé, but one of the junior members of the New York Sanctuary, had gone to find her at an absurdly early hour for some abnormal crisis. They saw her retreating to her room in last night's clothes, put two and three together, and promptly came up with five. It's not like Bob was judging her – if anything, she rather suspected she'd gone up in his esteem – but the young man was a terrible gossip. Next thing you know, she hears it second hand from the Head of the Tokyo Sanctuary, and is forced to defend her position as Head of the Network because she dared to take a lover out of wedlock.

Really, you'd have thought the world had moved on just a little, but it seemed even some of the most intelligent, honest and hard-working people out there could still manage some pretty impressive bigotry when it came to the woman in charge. If it had been James and some UN Secretary they'd have all congratulated him for his ingenuity in seducing a woman on the inside… not that the thought was any less mercenary, but, being a woman, in a man's world, the rumours had somewhat mutated her reputation. No more just the respectable Doctor, abnormal expert and formidable war hero, but now too, a manipulative whore content to use sex for political gain.

It had been a while now, since that awkward telephone conference, and for the most part they'd all gotten back to business as usual. They'd even had the go ahead to open a small outpost in Grozny for a six month trial. Helen, however, had been on guard ever since, determined to avoid a repeat, and pissed off at the fact that she even had to worry about the sexual politics at all. She'd spent decades of her former years maintaining her honour – even when she'd allowed herself to besmirch it she'd always been careful – and now, she was over a hundred years old, and still being held to the same ridiculous code?!

James could see the frustration of it rolling from every inch of her, the way she shook her head and sighed. The way she gripped the report, turning pages sharply as she carried it over to the singular comfy chair. It had always been difficult for Helen to accept, that women were held to different standards than men; particularly when it was thrown in the path of what she wanted.

He watched sagely, coming to sit closer – on the nearest edge of the bed. It's not that he blamed her, he didn't, but he had been particularly surprised to hear she'd been caught out, and even… a little jealous. Just more proof that her world continued to turn, whereas his… his felt as if it'd been stuck on pause for years. A life on hold. Helen leaving had been just the tip of the iceberg, forcing him to realise that he'd been distracting himself, for a very long time. From what? Old age, he suspected. The inevitability of losing people, of those final goodbyes. Perhaps that's why he had renewed his search for John.

It was ironic, he supposed. That after years of impressing upon Helen that no good could come of such a venture, that the Ripper was beyond their help, he was now embarking upon his own quest for the man who had destroyed their younger selves. He told himself it was to see justice done: but in truth, in his darkest moments he could even admit, it was more to assuage the growing sense of loneliness.

There had been a flicker, in that French bunker, of the man he'd once known. That thirst for killing cowed by the even greater evil of National Socialism – perhaps a part of him realised then what Helen had seen all these years. That brief, fleeting glimpse of hope that he could be saved.

Helen was looking at him, mouth paused. She'd been about to speak, until she caught sight of the emotional cogs engaging behind the surface, felt the concern for where those thoughts were taking him – and then everything froze. Cautiously she waited for what might lay behind it: anger, sadness, jealousy, loneliness? Part of her wanted to ask. The other knew better than to confront James Watson with nothing but intuition and surmise, especially when it involved something so personal. Indeed, when she could feel his attentions back in the here and now, she couldn't help but feel a little relieved that they need not address it at all.

"Did you have chance to read it yet?" she asked.

"Cover to cover," he smiled.

Helen beamed back – it was only a couple of pages long.

"They clearly had no reason to suspect foul play." He surmised, "Jeanette must have been far too suspicious of the authorities to even suggest it so… why would they?"

Helen nodded, giving a 'hmm' of consideration at the verdict – Natural Causes, Cardiac Arrest, "He'd seen his doctor less than a week before, high blood pressure, hardening arteries… I must admit with this history I wouldn't have been looking for foul play either."

James looked as if he might not entirely agree, "Yes, but you would have done a thorough check of what was presented to you... forgive me if I don't trust the local surgeons to be as diligent."

She looked at him, realising what he was saying, "You mean they're likely to have missed something subtle. A discolouration… or needle mark?"

"If Jeanette is right – and there's still no proof either way that she is – whoever did this is a professional." He looked out into the invisible distance, thinking it through, then back to her, "The subtlety of it. They used his poor health against him, agitated his condition and let nature do the rest."

"But how did they administer the agitator?"

He narrowed his eyes again, visualising the scene as he slowly, methodically repeated the events aloud, "Nigel was found in the garden, in broad daylight – by Jeanette. They wouldn't want to risk being seen, not by the Griffins, or any nosy neighbours, otherwise they'd ruin the illusion."

"Which rules out injection, surely," she reasoned. "The effects would've been almost instantaneous – whether its insulin, or cyanide, or any poison injected into the blood – they wouldn't have had time to be sure of getting away undetected."

"Precisely," Watson stood, starting to pace the floor, "he'd have to ingest it. And it would have to be prepared, waiting for him – he died on the scene, at 3pm."

Helen read over the abbreviation of Jeanette's statement again, "He was gardening."

"Physical exertion – so if he had extraordinarily high blood pressure-"

"It could tip him over the edge."

Suddenly he stopped pacing, "It was the weekend, correct?"

"Yes, a Saturday."

"When have you ever known Nigel not to have a drink, of some sort, on a day off?"

Her instant smile at the thought twisted painfully, "Boozy type, old Griffin."

James seemed to register the sentimental tone rather belatedly – the meaning behind it slowing his mental pursuit and distracting him.

"So…" she surmised before he could, shaking aside her emotions, "some sort of pain killer, in his drink?"

"It's the most likely explanation, yes," James responded soberly, watching the way she'd drawn into herself, braced for an emotion she didn't want to share. "The bottle would look sealed; easy enough to plant it. It would be harmless to everyone else. They could have been planting them for… weeks."

She shook her head and breathed steadily, as if she were being a foolish girl, and James didn't know what to do. Gone were the days he'd have walked over and embraced her, or the days he'd have pretended, for propriety's sake, not to have impugned upon her privacy – or even the times he'd have placed a hand upon her shoulder, with a softly-spoken temptation to look at something scientifically wondrous and distracting.

Eventually he went to sit next to her, and simply took her hand. She laughed a little, cracked by the unshed tears, in an attempt to put off any kind of sympathy. Even so, she was squeezing his hand right back.

"Typical really, I always said it would be the death of him," she gasped, reigning in the bubble of emotion, and smiling through it. "Never meant it quite like that."

Watson couldn't help but be affected, her smiling sadness bringing out his own as if searching for a playmate. He tried not to think about Nigel, grinning over a pint like he always did. The pubs – like the man himself – had barely changed in all those years. So many fond memories: their boys' night out in Oxford, God he'd almost forgotten. Tesla had been so high and mighty until that singular drinking challenge knocked him clean out. He'd never seen John snigger so much in all his life. Nigel had been so very good at that – bringing them together. Not just for a scientific challenge, or some crisis, or love – just as friends, having a good time.

"We'll get to the bottom of this," he offered.

She seemed to gain enough strength to brush aside such platitudes, and remove her hand from his, "Of course we will. We owe him that. We owe Jeanette and Anna that."

"I'll…" he cleared his throat, slowly taking his arms back into his own space and standing up, "I'll call in with the Sanctuary, let them know we'll be down here another day. We can go over to their house – if he was… murdered, there'll be clues. If not – then there'll be clues as to why Jeanette thought he was, at least."

"You can't really believe she's lying James?"

"No. I believe she believes it to be the truth, but we must remain…"

"Impartial?" she was mocking him, ever so slightly, with the absurdity of such a concept in a case which involved a friend and colleague as important to them as Nigel.

"We're in the dark here Helen. Completely in the dark. Let's not start taking leaps of faith until we have enough light to see the ledge, hmm?"

Author's Note: HUGE thanks to AConstanceC and The Watch Stander for following (and one fave-ing) this fic already! How else am I supposed to know you're interested? The ego-stroking is appreciated as ever :D Let me know if you think I'm going OOC, what you liked/didn't like about nods to cannon and head-cannon, or what you're thoughts are about the thickening plot!